Page 42 of Cream & Sugar
I can tell that Rory, a strong black coffee man through-and-through, is trying his best not to sneer. “And your boss?”
I shift in my seat. “Shaun? Yeah, he’s great.”
“You’re not trying to shag him, are you?”
I can tell he’s only half-joking; he knows me too well. I play it cool.
“Nah, he’s straight,” then, because I can’t help it, “at least, he thinks he is.”
Rory shakes his head. “The day you stop thinking everyone wants to sleep with you is the day I stop worrying about you getting slapped with a sexual harassment charge.”
I cross my arms, feigning offence. “Hey, I was a good boy, okay? He said no, so I backed off.”
Rory’s eyes widen. “Wait, so youactuallytried it on with him?”
Yes is the honest answer, but I find the truth is often better delivered unvarnished.
“Not exactly. I was being my usual charming self but he wasn’t into it.” At least he says he wasn’t. I’m still not entirely convinced that handsome beefcake doesn’t have the hots for me. Those eyes don’t lie. I pick up my glass and swirl the ice cubes. “It was no biggie.”
Rory lets out a long, slow breath. “You’re lucky he didn’t fire you on the spot.”
Luck has very little to do with it. I’m pretty sure he was so desperate for staff that I could’ve gotten butt naked in my interview and still got the job.
We chat some more about our respective work issues. Rory vexes over the dozens of multi-million-pound transactions he’s juggling at the moment, and I recount all the times I’ve burned my thumb on the milk steamer. It all feels very grown up.
Our conversation shuts down instantly as the food arrives and we chow down like mad men. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was, but since starting work, my diet has all but reduced to café scraps and what bits I’ve managed to pilfer from Rory’s fridge. Luckily the battered haddock comes with an absolute mountain of chips which I soon reduce to a molehill, and then a no-hill.
“I don’t know where you put all that,” says Rory with a sigh. He’s always been envious of my fast metabolism. Rory hasn’t touched anything fried in years.
As we polish off our dinner, a ripple of static whines through the pub and I look round to see a balding, middle-aged guy with a guitar setting up a PA system. He approaches the mic, taps it twice and speaks.
“Alright folks, welcome to the open mic night at the Penny Farthing!” Collective groans from the half-dozen patrons scattered around the place. “For those who don’t know me, my name’s Garyand for the next two hours, anyone is welcome to come up and perform. Be you singer or poet, actor or rapper, all are welcome. Just put your name on the sign-up sheet behind the bar. Joyce?” Gary waves to the hostess who’s busy polishing wine glasses. “Any sign-ups in advance?”
“Nope,” says Joyce, like it’s the thousandth time she’s said it. Gary, however, is unfazed.
“No problemo!” he booms into the mic like he’s addressing Wembley Arena. “Guess I’ll have to kick things off with a few tunes myself, but don’t let me hog the mic all night, people! The sign-up sheet is waiting so don’t be shy. No judgement here, just good times.”
“What a knob,” Rory mutters so only I can hear.
I stifle a laugh. “I dunno, the jury’s still out.”
Gary spends a full minute tuning his guitar before launching into his first song. Immediately, I recognise the opening chords of Wonderwall and suck my teeth. To be fair, he isn’t awful, but his guitar is still out of tune and by Gary’s third song it's clear his repertoire is stuck firmly in the jukebox genre.
“I’ll get the bill,” Rory announces as Gary instructs us to join in with the “ba ba bas” of Sweet Caroline.
“Sure,” I smile and lean forward. “Or we could show them how it’s done?”
Rory cocks his head. “What?”
“Here we go!” Gary’s voice crescendos as he reaches the chorus: “Five six seven eight. Sweet Ca-ro-line…!”
Tumbleweeds.
I lean further over the table to whisper in Rory’s ear: “Let’s do it! Play something!”
Rory blanches. “Nofucking way.”
I give the table an enthusiastic slap. “Yes fucking way! Come on, one song. Let’s do Amber Lane. I know you know that one. You play, I’ll sing.”
